


Routine

by narsus



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 20:51:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: The day to day activities of Angels and Demons are fairly banal.
Relationships: Crowley/Hastur (Good Omens)
Kudos: 6





	Routine

“Now who’s being ridiculous?”  
“The offer stands.” Michael snaps. “Our armies have gone soft. We need warriors.”  
“Soldiers of God.” Hastur nods.  
Michael’s eyes narrow.  
“What? Facts are facts.” Hastur lights a cigarette.  
“Soldiers that can handle a bit of smiting.”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“It’d backfire spectacularly, Michael. I’m one of the Fallen, remember?”  
“You were a better commander than most of the Heavenly host.”  
“Yes, and?”  
“Come back. I can get the paperwork through, bring your _mistress_ too if you want. I can arrange that much.”  
“And my legion?”  
“Perhaps.”  
Hastur laughs. “Best make sure _you_ don’t Fall at this rate.”  
Michael glares.  
“Come on, I’ll buy brunch. There’s that place around here that you like; the one that does the bottomless mimosas.”  
“As if I’d sup with a demon.”  
“I was thinking about taking a wander down Jermyn Street after. See if they’ve got anything new in.” Hastur continues as if Michael hasn’t spoken.  
“Fine.”

They have an understanding of sorts. The only reason it isn’t a golf course arrangement is that neither of them plays golf. The occasional brunch and a bit of shopping. Every so often. Not too frequently. With a few caveats. Hastur won’t go fur shopping with Michael and Michael won’t go cufflink shopping with Hastur. The ground rules are pretty straightforward.

Being a demon of a certain standing has certain benefits. Hastur can travel to the mortal realm without the sort of border checks, when leaving or returning to Hell, that certain, lower, demons might face. It’s like being always directed to the priority lane having travelled everywhere First Class. Today for instance the gleaming black marble corridors are clear as he strides along them, nobody questions the shopping bag he’s carrying nor his business in dining with an Archangel. Everybody knows of course. Anyone who is even the slightest bit attuned to the gossip of Hell knows that Duke Hastur is ‘friendly’ with the Archangel Michael and that once upon a time they rode into battle, shoulder to shoulder, leaving a bloody swathe of corpses behind them. There are even rumours that Duke Hastur ‘helped out’ with the slaying of the first born in Egypt once upon a time. It’s the sort of gossip that has the few demons on concierge duty, at the desk of the large residential tower, deliberately busying themselves with their paperwork when Duke Hastur returns.

Hastur, like most higher demons, lives in one of the handful of residential tower blocks that sit on the banks of the lake of fire. The towers are far enough away from each other that nobody has to worry about looking into each other’s windows due to their scare number and location around the large lake. It’s prime real-estate. His executive apartment is not quite the penthouse suite but it’s high up enough, and nobody overlooks the balconies. In fact, even he isn’t sure who does live in the apartments above, only that the lift that he gets into doesn’t go higher than his floor.

Entering his apartment, he notices a few things immediately; the fire is lit, the balcony door behind the piano is open and that the smell of coffee permeates everything. He sets the shopping bag down on a side table and puts his coat away before he heads outside. He rather hopes there’s not going to be some kind of angry confrontation right now. It’s been a long but enjoyable day and he’d much prefer to relax by the fire with a Scotch.

Crowley is sitting at the little table on the balcony, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, the other holding a cigarette. He’s still wearing his sunglasses. Hastur takes the seat opposite.  
“I told him I was going to Marbella. You know about... right?”  
“Your friend? The Guardian of the Eastern Gate?”  
“Yeah, that one.”  
Hastur nods thoughtfully. “I have had to note in your report that you’re making slow process with this seduction plan of yours. It’s ambitious, granted but could do with setting up some milestones to actually track your progress.”  
“Oh! I mean… oh, is that going to impact my mid-year review?”  
“Probably not. Just gives you a SMART objective to work at.”  
“Specific… uh?”  
“Measurable, actionable, realistic and timed.”  
“Right. I’ll work on that.” Crowley gulps down a mouthful of coffee.  
Hastur takes the cigarette from Crowley’s hand and finishes it off.  
They sit in silence.

Finally, Crowley stands up.  
“Take your glasses off; I like to see your eyes.”  
Crowley obligingly takes the sunglasses off and smiles. “I was just going to get changed. I am on holiday after all.”

The evening, if there is such a thing as evening in Hell, consists of Hastur sitting by the fire, Scotch in hand, with an arm around a negligee wearing Crowley. Crowley stretches out on the couch and naps, occasionally waking up to refill Hastur’s glass.

Aziraphale does in fact talk to demons other than Crowley from time to time. He occasionally needs to collect information, so he tells himself, for Heaven’s cause. Which is why he is currently casually buying a hot dog by Charring Cross station and chatting with the person beside him. He likes to think that he does a passible impression of being some kind of undercover agent of Hell.

“Well, it’s be expected.”  
“Oh? Is that so?”  
“You know how much Mistress Crowley hates humanity. Of course he lost his shit over postponing Armageddon.”  
“There’ll be reasons for that. We can’t _always_ be having revolutions, French or otherwise.” Aziraphale suggests companionably.  
“Sure. But I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to explain that to Mistress Crowley.”  
Aziraphale supposes that a certain Duke of Hell might be responsible for that.

He’s not really that surprised when he’s accosted, as he strolls down the Strand, by said Duke of Hell.  
“Crowley is… indisposed right now. Don’t come looking for him.” Hastur growls, leaning in intimidatingly.  
Aziraphale steps back to a polite distance and checks a sigh. This is the tedious part about dealing with most demons; the posturing. “He’s on holiday. In Marbella. I’m sure he’s having a very nice time.” He states firmly.  
Hastur narrows his eyes.  
“Those are very nice cufflinks by the way. Very… Highland.”  
Hastur glances down at the pewter stag’s head cufflink that’s been exposed by his jacket sleeve riding up. “Thank you.” He manages to growl in response.

Aziraphale spends the next day mostly fussing around his shop while the Archangel Michael sits in a chair and reads a first edition copy of “The Fur Trade in Canada: An Introduction to Canadian Economic History” that Aziraphale didn’t own yesterday. Its closing time when Michael finally looks up.  
“Don’t interfere.”  
“What? No, no of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it!”  
“Good. There are greater plans in motion and eventually you will need to play your part.”  
It’s only after the door is closed and locked on Michael’s departure that Aziraphale allows himself to form the thought that dealing with Michael is much like dealing with most demons.

Of course Crowley returns after his holiday. He turns up at Aziraphale’s shop with some Scottish Tablet for the angel and some story about a flight being redirected to Edinburgh.  
“The highlands are nice this time of year, I hear.”  
Crowley ignores the comment and peers at a book on a shelf. “Since when did you care about the fur trade, Angel?”  
“I’ll make some tea, shall I? It’ll probably take me a while to pry all that information out of you.”  
“Hours.” Crowley agrees.  
“Well.”  
“Suppose we could go and grab that last table at the Ritz. It’d help with the whole seduction thing I’m meant to be up to, you know?”

In the end Crowley’s mid-year review states that he’s on track to achieve his objectives for the year, and Aziraphale receives a commendation for his dedication to monitoring demonic affairs.


End file.
